


Glorious Trouble

by Maplesyrup



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Walt is a jerk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: Benoit comes to Marta's rescue
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 68
Kudos: 358





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first Benoit/Marta fic! I love these two so much! 
> 
> (This is unbeta'd because the idea just struck and it's also 1am where I am, so I'm sorry if it sucks.)

Benoit didn’t know when it started.

Perhaps it was her reaction to the Thrombey’s wave of nastiness when she was named sole inheritor of Mr. Thrombey’s vast wealth, the fear and disbelief evident on her face. Or it could have been the first time she genuinely smiled at him, a real smile that lit up her eyes. Or maybe…maybe it was further back. Back when he was quietly relishing how easy it was to unnerve the Thrombey throng, right after Mr. Thrombey’s untimely demise. 

The plunked high C on the piano had the desired effect of jarring them out of their self-centered musings on the patriarch’s death. He’d enjoyed those dissonant moments in the otherwise smooth interviews until a big, sad pair of green eyes in a face made by the loving hand of God himself appeared and—

Benoit shook his head, taking a drag on his Double Corona and blowing the smoke into the blue-black of the night sky. He’d sprung for a rather nice suite in the boutique hotel he’d chosen for the case, and it came equipped with a lovely little balcony. The case was closed but Benoit had nowhere to be and no one to return to, so he allowed himself a couple of well-earned days off exploring the area and finding all the niche places he didn’t have time to appreciate during the investigation.

Lucky for him, he hadn’t run into a single Thrombey yet. He imagined the stuck to their own kind, as much as they seemed to loathe one another under the veneer of ‘family’.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp air as it filled his lungs, clearing away the cigar smoke for the moment. His thoughts returned to those green eyes and he wondered what she was doing right then. 

A wry chuckle escaped his lips as he stubbed out the cigar and returned inside. It was past midnight; Marta would be asleep. At least, he hoped so. She deserved to rest well, and deep. The idea of her peaceful in slumber tugged at his heartstrings, and he sighed. Time for his own rest and maybe he’d be less maudling in the morning.

* * *

He’d been incorrect. At least he’d slept well, but Benoit found himself with the same twinge hanging around in his chest like a swingset anchored between his lungs. Strong coffee and a light breakfast helped, but not much. He’d begun to resign himself to another restless walk about town when his phone began buzzing madly in his blazer pocket.

The mansion's number flashed across the screen. His heart gave a peculiar, hard thump that echoed around his body in an electric jolt. Swiping to answer, he set the phone to his ear.

“Mr. Blanc?”

He smiled to hear her emphasize the round ‘A’ in his surname; she always did get that right.

“Miss Cabrera,” he all but crooned into the receiver. Rolling his eyes at himself, he sat up straight. “How can I help you?”

She let out a shaky sigh and he was instantly on alert.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, sir. It’s just…it’s Walt. Walt Thrombey.”

Benoit frowned. “What about him? What has he done?”

“Nothing. Not yet, anyway. He’s just,” she sighed again, “he keeps…calling.”

Benoit was out of his chair like a shot, his strides eating ground as he barrelled back up to his room to grab his car keys. He kept his voice calm despite the rush of anger in his blood, not wanting to chance her misinterpreting his feelings.

“And does he give any particular reason for these _calls?_ ” he said, thundering back down the stairs and out to the parking lot. “Or has he suddenly discovered a well of genuine kindness that has nothing to do with you owning his late father’s wealth?” Benoit didn’t bother to hide the cynicism from his voice.

Marta laughed a little, a mere breath of amusement, but it was enough to set him smiling once more despite the neanderthal-like desire to pummel the fulsome Walt Thrombey into the ground like so much meat. Benoit slid into the driver’s seat of his rental, shutting the door and starting the engine.

“Miss Cabrera,” he said, putting the car in gear and backing out of his spot, “I don’t mean to impose, but I must let you know I am on my way to the mansion as we speak.” He paused, pressing the brakes. “If…if that’s alright with you, of course.”

He cringed. _Damn it._ When was his fool self going to learn that not every woman wanted— 

“Yes. Please. I-I was going to ask, but…”

—A white knight. 

He blinked, letting out a smiling sigh that would embarrass him later upon remembrance.

“Well, then. Stay put. I’ll be there shortly.”

* * *

She met him at the door when he arrived, wearing one of her cozy-looking cardigans, her hair a little disheveled, wavy and parted on one side. The simple style gave her sweet good looks a slight edge and he swallowed convulsively as he climbed the porch stairs. She smiled at him in that way she had, shy yet worried around the eyes, her full lips parted and breath fogging in the cold morning air.

He stopped on the top step, his instincts doing their level best to tug him forward, to wrap his arms around her and warm any chill away from her skin. He ignored them, focusing on her worried frown, the one that held a hint of annoyance.

“Mr. Blanc,” she said simply.

“Benoit, please.” He smiled. “Surely we’ve been through enough to warrant given names, haven’t we, Watson?”

She turned her head away with that little grin that lit up her face, her frown banished for the moment.

“I think so, yes.” She gestured behind her to the half-open door. “I’ve made a pot of tea, would you like some?”

He nodded. “Very much.” In truth, he was more of a coffee person but he’d be damned to hell and back before he turned down anything Martha chose to offer him. Even if it was just tea.

They settled in the kitchen, seated at the large island in the center. The room was much like the rest of the house, save for the conspicuous lack of antique bric-a-brac of which the late Mr. Thrombey was so fond. Benoit was glad for it; that much _stuff_ everywhere could boggle a man’s eyes. Martha sipped her tea, gazing at him over the rim for a moment before lowering the mug to the counter, wrapping her slender hands around it.

“I hope you know, Mr…Benoit, that I intend to pay you for your help.” She drummed her fingers on the porcelain. “I don’t expect your level of expertise to come for free, and wouldn’t allow it, in any case.”

He fiddled with his own mug. “I’ve yet to do anything that warrants my usual fee, my dear.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “So you needn’t worry just yet.” He reached out, stilling the drumming of her fingers with a gentle touch. “Why don’t you tell me what Walt has been bothering you with, to start?”

She stilled, staring at their hands for a moment. He withdrew but she kept her gaze where his hand had been before blinking back into herself and raising those eyes to his.

“He…he keeps suggesting to stop by and go over areas of the house with me.” She tucked her hair behind an ear, gesticulating with the raised hand as she spoke. “As if I don’t know this place like I know myself.” She huffed, taking another large sip of her tea and setting the mug down hard enough to slosh a bit of liquid over the side, unnoticed as she kept talking.

“I’m trying to be kind to them, Benoit. I really am. I give Meg whatever she needs for school, and except for Walt, she’s the only one who will have any contact with me.” Marta shook her head. “How am I supposed to help them when they still treat me like I, I don’t know, swindled their father or something?”

Benoit loved the way Marta said his name, adding a diphthong it couldn’t truly claim but that sounded so pleasant regardless. Before that thought could run away with him, he refocused his attention back on what she was actually saying.

“I recall telling you I had my own opinion about how you should conduct your interactions with them now that everything is sorted,” he said, finally taking a sip of tea. It was warm, redolent of sweet mint, and he hummed in pleasure.

Her shoulders slumped and she looked miserable for a moment.

“You did, yes. And I can guess what it is.” She wrapped her hands back around her mug. “I don’t like this. Any of it. I mean, I like the security. I like that my mother and sister no longer have to worry, that we have a path forward for them. I like that I can be a nurse for the sake of nursing. I like that Meg doesn’t have to worry about anything but getting good grades. But I don’t…I can’t just…”

“I know,” he said in her ensuing pause. “Your kind heart, remember?”

She let out a little growl of frustration. The sound did things to him he tried hard to ignore.

“I know Walt wants money. They all do. And I know his pride keeps him from asking me for it but why does he have to be so—so _oily?_ ” She shook her head. “It feels gross. Like he thinks I don’t know or-or can’t see what he’s doing.” She snorted. “If there’s a problem with the house, I have enough fucking money to get a goddamned contractor to fix it.”

It was the first time Benoit had ever heard Marta truly swear. During the investigation, there had been the odd _hell_ or _damn_ , and he seemed to recall an exasperated _shit_ or two. But the sound of a blue streak coming out of that tiny woman’s angelic mouth nearly undid him. 

He snapped his jaw shut, clearing his throat and adjusting his blazer. She flashed him a guilty look.

“I’m sorry. I don’t usually use that kind of language. Only when I’m frustrated or…” she trailed off, her cheeks pinkening. He opened his mouth to ask her what else made her swear like a sailor when the doorbell chimed in what Benoit considered to be an utterly inopportune interruption.

Marta’s eyes widened before she dropped her head into her hands with a groan.

“Damn,” she mumbled. “He said he should come by but I didn’t think he meant _today_ .” She groaned. “God, why can’t he just _go away_.”

Benoit slid from his chair, doing up one button on his blazer, and met Marta’s startled look with an even gaze and a devious grin.

“I’d be happy to handle Mr. Thrombey,” he said, twitching his sleeves into place, “if you don’t mind, of course.”

Marta shook her head slowly. “No, I don’t mind at all. Only…”

Benoit paused, raising an eyebrow at her. “Yes?”

She bit her lip on a grin, causing his brain to nearly short-circuit.

“You remind me of James Bond when you do that.” Her cheeks pinkened once more.

He tucked that information away for later perusal, along with her lip bite, and, giving her a short nod, made his way to the front door.

The look on Walt Thrombey’s face when he realized Marta was not alone in the house should have been captured on film and sold to a gallery. _Portrait of A Formerly Wealthy Man Who Is Also A Massive Idiot,_ Benoit would title it. It would have fetched a fortune.

He grinned, leaning against the doorjamb with a cocky sort of relaxation.

“How can I help you, Walt?”

The man in question sputtered for a moment, his cane tapping the porch boards in echo.

“Where’s Marta?” he managed to spit out at last.

“In the kitchen, having a lovely cup of midmorning tea.” Benoit crossed his arms. “I’d invite you in, but you see, it’s her home.”

He could practically hear Walt’s teeth grinding, the knuckles of the hand gripping his cane turning white.

“Please tell her I’d like to see her.”

“You can see me from where you’re standing, Walt.”

Benoit turned to look over his shoulder, seeing Marta standing there, arms crossed and sporting what he assumed was her stern nurse look. It was an effective expression.

“M-Marta!” Walt took a step forward, stopping when Benoit leveled a glare in his direction. “I thought I’d drop by, like I mentioned earlier.” He smiled, all affable and friendly.

Marta hummed. “That’s funny, Walt,” she said with a frown, “because I don’t remember you _asking_ if you could drop by at all. I guess you just assumed it would be ok?”

Walt’s gaze swung from Marta to Benoit and back. “W-well, it’s just that I have some news, you see, and I wanted to share it with you.”

“Really?” Marta shrugged a shoulder. “Alright. What’s your news?”

He let out a nervous laugh. “It’s news best shared in private, I’m afraid.”

Marta nodded. “I see. It’s a good thing it’s just Mr. Blanc and me here, then. I’d say that’s pretty private.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “What’s your news?”

Walt sighed. “It’s my wife and I. Or, I should say, estranged wife. We’ve…decided to separate following the, uh, change in family circumstances, you see.”

“Oh.” Marta shook her head. “I’m sorry, Walt,” she said, compassion in her voice. “That kind of thing can’t be easy.”

“No. No, it certainly isn’t.” Walt shrugged. “I thought, perhaps, since you were always like family, we could talk about it.” He gestured towards Marta. “You know her as much as any of us.”

“Walt…no. I’m sorry, but no. I don’t really know Donna that well. Maybe a counselor or a lawyer might be better people to talk to?” Genuine contrition filled her voice and Benoit bristled. What on earth did she have to be sorry for?

Walt’s face screwed up in anger. “You ungrateful _bitch_.”

Marta took a step back as if she’d been slapped and Benoit was torn between the desire to go to her and the fervent need to punch Walt in his goddamned face.

“You took all you could from this family and now you can’t even give me the common fucking decency to listen to me for five minutes about my marriage falling apart?!” Spittle flew from his mouth as Walt yelled at her. “Who the fuck do you think you are?! You’re a fucking _nurse_ we hired to look after a crazy old man! Who the fuck are you to get everything when you worked for _none_ of it?!”

Marta turned white. “You need to go. Now,” she nearly whispered before turning and hurrying back into the kitchen.

Benoit glared at Walt, enraged but outwardly calm. 

“You heard Miss Cabrera,” he said, deadly soft. “Now take your carcass off her property before I call the police. Though,” he chuckled darkly, “I don’t plan to call them before I’ve knocked the living daylights out of you for speaking to her like that.” He took a step forward into the taller man’s space. Walt had the grace to step back. “She’s an angel and you’re not fit to breathe the same air as her. Get the hell out of here. Now.”

Walt scowled. “This isn’t over,” he said before turning and hobbling back to wherever he came from.

Benoit shut the door with more force than strictly necessary, flipping the deadbolt with relish. He took a deep breath, regaining control of his faculties before turning to return to Marta. It wouldn’t do to scare her.

“Benoit.”

He turned, surprised to see her standing just a few feet behind him, those eyes of hers luminous, glistening with unshed tears. The good Lord help him, he was going to fall if he wasn’t careful.

“I heard what you said.”

He nodded, a little ashamed. “Not my best moment, I’m afraid. I’m normally much more level-headed than that. My apologies, my dear.”

Marta shook her head, moving close enough to touch him.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” She gazed up at him. “I heard what you called me.”

He felt his cheeks heat rapidly with embarrassment. “Oh, well. I, uh…he was being vile and I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

She moved even closer, daring to place a hand on his chest, over his rapidly-beating heart that leapt at her nearness. His breathing turned shallow as she brushed against him.

“Marta, I—”

She shushed him with a kiss, pressing herself up to slide her arms around his neck, molding her lips to his. He grunted in surprise but quickly recovered, sliding his arms around her and squeezing her to him. She whimpered against his mouth, opening hers to nip at his lips with her teeth. He moaned, low and deep, and picked her up, turning them so she was pressed against the door, his large frame against her small one. He changed the angle of their kiss, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, and her answering moan was sweeter than music. She tasted of sweet mint and something so indelibly Marta that it made him weak in the knees.

They devoured one another for several long moments, slowing naturally as the heat of the moment cooled, but she stayed in the circle of his arms. When they parted, she laid her head against his chest, her ear over his heart as she caught her breath, her arms around his waist, holding him as securely as he held her. He stroked her hair back from her face rhythmically, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. She was so tiny but fit against him perfectly.

“Wow,” she said shakily after a few moments more. “I…wasn’t expecting that.”

He chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head.

“I was quite surprised as well.” He smiled into her hair. “But, please, feel free to waylay me like that any time your heart desires, my dear.”

Marta giggled, snuggling closer, and his heart melted.

He was in so much glorious trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benoit Blanc has some 'splaining to do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone mind another chapter? Let me know and I'll take this down ;)

_ 3 months later… _

Much to his chagrin and shame, work drew Benoit from Marta’s side the day after their interlude at the mansion. He’d received word of a case that involved significant international travel over several months, and the impending globe-trotting, while lucrative, effectively snipped the fragile threads woven between them after the Thrombey investigation had concluded.

He’d promised to call, to write, but her eyes had shuttered. The gentle opening of her soul had reversed track and closed. She’d smiled when he’d come back to say goodbye after hastily packing, her manner kind as usual, but he could tell she was guarded. He’d stood for several melancholic moments after the door shut, nonplussed at the physical representation of the sudden barrier between them, large and forbidding and locked.

He drummed his fingers on the table of the little cafe, the midafternoon sun painting downtown Barcelona with a golden wash. It irritated him to recall the lachrymose turn of his thoughts that day, even all these weeks later. A certain level of poeticism was to be expected in a son of the South; their slower ways left plenty of room for the grace notes of life. There was a kind of honeyed sentimentality in the regular interactions of the Mississippi folk, but even so, he was starting to annoy himself.

The flowing Spanish spoken all around him reminded him of her—how could it not?—and not for the first time did he wish the job had taken a different path.

Not that anywhere else would erase her. On the contrary. From Brussels, through Munich, and across the North Sea coast, everything seemed to remind him of Marta.

Mawkish fool that he was.

How many times had he started an email, or picked up a postcard, or dialed the first numbers of the mansion’s number only to stop, and sigh, and change his mind. What good would it do to contact her and say,  _ why, hello, Marta _ . And,  _ how are you doing, half a world away? _ And,  _ I think I love you, come join me _ . It was highly likely none of it would be welcome, anyway. He couldn’t bring himself to listen to her distant kindness as she refused him.

He shook himself, downing his coffee as the business men and women around him began to rise at the end of their siestas. The more international souls refused the traditional midday rest in favor of caffeinating for the rest of their evenings and he joined them, preferring a particularly shaded table from which to watch the world go by. And to miss her. And wonder if she missed him.

An invitation sent via email reached him late that evening as he stood on the balcony of his hotel room, indulging in a ridiculously expensive Cohiba Spectre. His phone buzzed with the message and he slid the device from his pocket with a questioning frown, flicking open the mail application and tapping on the new message. Silver text on a black background greeted him and formally invited him to the annual Thrombey silent auction and gala, this one ostensibly to benefit the National Immigration Law Center.

A mixture of emotions swirled through him; annoyance and cynicism chief among them, but a faint string of hope looped around the bunch. If he was invited—for whatever reason—then it stood to reason Marta would be as well. He had a strong hunch that the specified charity had something to do with her, as well.

Was it her way of calling him? Telling him to come home, and to her?

The string of hope tightened, constricting his heart in a blissful kind of ache. He was nearly finished with the job he’d taken. Just a few ends to sweep up and he could leave. He checked the date of the gala and smiled. A little less than a month away. Plenty of time to settle his international affairs and return home.

* * *

Traveling through Europe carte blanche at his client’s behest hadn’t changed Benoit’s fundamentals, thank the good Lord. He was still a product of the Mississippi waters, the mud deep in his soul. So when the smartly attired driver of the sleek black car sat outside his hotel asked if he was Private Investigator Blanc, Benoit had to blink. He confirmed after the minute pause and the driver nodded with a smile, gesturing to the vehicle.

“Your car for the evening, sir.”

He nearly declined the car service, intending to call himself a cab, but deeply-bred politeness stopped his tongue. He slid into the backseat with a smile of thanks, the fine leather creaking slightly as he adjusted his tux and buckled himself in. The car pulled away from his hotel and the night had officially begun.

He watched the city roll past the window, the night alive with people enjoying the fine weather. A spark of anticipation started in his gut, leaving no doubt to the blaze that would follow once he arrived and saw once and for all if Marta was indeed in attendance. He was lost to his musings when the car pulled to a stop in front of a long, low set of steps leading to the city’s largest cultural museum. The door opened, jolting him out of his anxious musings, and he was surprised at the large gathering of tuxedos and formal gowns that filled his vision. A slow, informal procession had started up the stairs and folks meandered into the museum, chatting with others around them. The noise of their speech was a dull thrum, the occasional high laugh rising above the tumult, and he followed in the crowd’s wake as they moved inside.

The museum was lavishly decorated, swaths of silk fabric swooping down from the ceiling in attractive drapes of cream, bronze, and burgundy, the colors of the nonprofit for which the gala sought to benefit. Servers passed through the group with trays of appetizers and drinks and beautiful people floated on a sea of self-importance. He lifted a flute from a passing waiter and sipped at what was likely the best champagne he’d ever have in his life.

The entire facility seemed to be theirs for the evening, so he took the chance to indulge his curiosity and made his way towards one of the quieter areas, seeking the calm of the masters. But it wasn’t meant to be.

Gazing at a Rembrandt with a champagne flute dangling in one hand was none other than Joni Thrombey. He stopped short, stifling a groan and tried to quietly scoot out, but the heavy heel of his formal oxfords gave him away.

“Detective Blanc!”

He cringed before turning back to her. She’d gotten his name and title incorrect, as per the family usual, but he swallowed the irritation and smiled.

“Ms. Thrombey.”

She tittered, clicking towards him on needle-thin stilettos, her beaded nude dress swinging around her ankles.

“Oh, please. None of that,” she said. “Call me Joni.” She winked, pinging her glass against his and taking a rather large sip.

He turned to gaze at the art around them, longing for five whole minutes where he wouldn’t have to see anyone from or associated with the family. Well, except for one person.

“What brings you to our annual gala,  _ Monsieur  _ Blanc?” Joni slurred delicately, giggling at her own joke.

Benoit ground his teeth but kept his smile in place. “I was invited, and thus, I came.” He sipped from his flute, resisting the urge to down the fine vintage all in one gulp. He’d need something far stronger than champagne, however, if he was going to keep running into Thrombeys all night. He sighed.

“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Thrombey. I’ll just see myself to the bar.”

“Oh, take me with you!” She chirped, sliding an arm through his. His arm crooked up automatically to better cradle her hand, damn his breeding. She drained the last of her champagne and grinned at him. “I need a refill.” 

He swallowed an annoyed sigh, leading her out of the room and back into the throng.

* * *

It was easy enough to disengage himself from her side once they’d reached the bar, thank God. She became preoccupied with a young fellow who seemed better suited for her daughter, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain. Benoit ordered himself a scotch, neat, tipped the bartender well, and moved to the other end of the bar to people-watch.

He’d barely taken a sip when a small parting in the crowd led his eyes to a flash of emerald green, the sight a luxurious beacon among the unexceptional tones surrounding him. It was a dress, a stunning one to be exact, but the occupant was obscured by what he could tell was Meg Thrombey, clad herself in a muted royal purple (fitting). The pair of colors went well together but as Meg shifted, all thoughts of color schematics fled from Benoit’s mind.

The dress’ occupant was none other than one Marta Cabrera.

The sip of scotch sat overlong on his tongue, stinging the sensitive nerves and he swallowed hastily, ignoring the rush of fire for an altogether different sort of rush.

The dress clung to her gentle curves, high necked and long-sleeved. Someone had arranged her hair in her customary updo of braids but there was a softness to them that framed her face and made her look regal. She smiled and his heart forgot to beat for a moment. Longing for her rose, lush and forceful, and as Meg moved around her, Marta turned.

Benoit nearly swallowed his tongue.

She was bare from her shoulders clear down her back, the fabric finally coming together in a downward point that directed the viewer’s eyes right to Marta’s behind. He took another hasty sip of his drink. The good Lord help and preserve him, what a behind it was. 

All that smooth, beautiful skin was on display and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a beauty mark just to the left of her spine, for all to see who cared to look— 

Awe at her loveliness was replaced with a sudden flood of feral instinct so strong it took him a moment to recover. He blinked, dropping his gaze and shaking his head, his heart suddenly remembering its purpose and working overtime to make up for the several moments it had stopped.

“Well, if it isn’t the Private Dick himself,” a familiar voice said, followed by a hearty slap on Benoit's shoulder. He jerked his head up, searching for Marta, but she had disappeared. And beside him was yet another Thrombey. 

Well, sort of.

Richard Drysdale stood at his shoulder, holding his own tumbler of spirits, though his contained far more liquid than Benoit’s. He grinned, taking a sip, and Benoit was too much of a gentleman to mention the fact that if anyone was to be called a dick, it was more fitting for Richard than Benoit.

“Mr. Drysdale.”

“Fancy meeting you here.” Richard sipped again. “I figured you’d want to stay as far from us as possible, now that the whole thing is over. Unless,” he said, giving Benoit a narrow-eyed grin, “something else has captured your attention?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Something from…south of the border, shall we say?”

Benoit sent silent thanks to his late grandmother for her role in drumming gentlemanly behavior into his thick skull as a child, for it was that alone that kept him from grabbing Richard by the collar and throwing him across the room.

“Nothing of the kind,” he replied with a bland smile. “I was closing another appointment and received an invitation to the gala. Seemed like it might be fun.” He sipped his scotch, holding Richard’s eyes all the while. Richard was the first to look away.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He started to walk away, then paused, turning back to Benoit.

“Oh, have you  _ seen _ Marta yet?” His smile turned oily. “If you haven’t, you, uh,  _ really _ should. You know, before someone else does.” Richard raised his drink in mock salute. “Catch you later, Detective.”

Benoit leaned against the bar, sipping his drink and taking several deep breaths to stem the anger that Richard’s words stirred up. When he was certain he was in complete control of himself, he pushed off the bar, setting his drink down and moving back into the crowd. He scanned for the telltale flash of green but couldn’t see it anywhere.

“Mr. Blanc! Finally!”

He turned, Meg’s bright smile greeting him. At least there was one Thrombey who didn’t inspire his immediate dislike, though he still maintained caution around all of them. 

“Miss Thrombey.”

Her smile turned a tad nervous. “I’m so glad you decided to come. I was worried you might not have gotten my invitation.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, so that was you, then? I wondered who decided to send it to me. I confess I thought it to be a joke, at first.”

She blushed, her eyes widening. “Oh, my god, no! Not at all! I invited you here to—” She cut herself off, then laughed, wringing her hands together. “Uh, I mean…h-have you seen Marta yet?” 

Benoit frowned at her. “You know, this is the second time in just a few minutes that I’ve been asked that question.” He refrained from shouting  _ Yes! Where is she?! I have to find her! _ , crossing his arms with affected calm instead. “Is there some reason I should be looking for her?”

Meg gave him a decisive nod, her gaze fervent. “Yes. You need to go find her. The last time I saw her, she was at the other bar at the back of the room. By herself.” A shrewd glint entered her eye. “For the moment, anyway.”

Benoit got the hint, delivered as it was with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.  “Then find her I shall,” he said. “Thank you, Meg.”

She nodded. “It’s the least I could do.”

* * *

Benoit maneuvered his way to the back of the room, spotting the bar first, and the glorious profile of Marta second. He stopped, arrested and heartbroken with several kinds of desire. It took him a moment to register that she wasn’t alone.

A young man stood with her, leaning against the bar and just a tad too much into her personal space for Benoit’s comfort. For her part, Marta seemed disinterested enough, facing the bar and drumming her fingers as the bartender moved to and fro. The young man pointed to something on Marta’s hand, and she looked down. He dared to lower his finger to touch her, running it up the back of her hand to her wrist, and Benoit’s jaw clenched.

Like hell would that whelping brat get any further.

He moved to the bar, managing to keep his steps even despite the desire to barrel towards them and scoop Marta up and away. No, he would not be a neanderthal. He was a  _ gentleman _ and he would fucking act like it. He slowed as he reached the bar, dizzy at having her so near once more. His staring alerted the younger man, who straightened with a possessive gleam in his eye. 

“Can I help you, man?”

Benoit shook his head. “I’m not here for you, son.”

Marta’s head shot up, her chest heaving with a sudden intake of breath. She turned, regarding him with those eyes he’d missed so much, her lips parting in disbelief.

His chest filled with a warm ache and he smiled wistfully. “Hello, Watson.”

The youth snorted, the sound rather unbecoming. “Her name is Martha, Bro.”

Benoit’s gaze snapped up, pinning the young man with a look that threatened to scorch him alive.

“Her name,” he growled, “is  _ Marta _ .”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Marta grumbled. “Stop being such a caveman.”

Apparently this was all the boy needed as encouragement, for he tried again. “Yeah, bro. We’re busy, so, you know.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Marta turned and leveled a glare at the boy. He swallowed convulsively, taking a step back. “Uh…you know what, I gotta go…”

Benoit didn’t bother to watch him scamper off, instead watching as Marta drew her shoulders back as she turned to him, her gaze cool.

“So, Mr. Blanc returns.”

Oh, but that smarted. Hit him right between the ribs and enumerated the distance between them, but he supposed he deserved it.

"Yo u look beautiful,” he said. “This color suits you.”

She dropped her gaze, nodding graciously. “Thank you.”

He willed her to say something else, even if it was a scolding for abandoning her for months without a word. She was well within her right, but she remained silent, the moment turning awkward as she worried a corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. His shoulders slumped and he nodded, reading her silent message as if it were shouted.

“I see,” he murmured. He turned, his movements sluggish with reluctance. Time to pack up his things at the hotel, rearrange his flights— 

A small hand shot out, wrapping around his forearm and he turned to see her big green eyes narrowed in what seemed like anger. That fragile thread of hope tightened once more around his heart. He stared in awe; she was bright as a lightening bug in her ire and he adored it. 

“Oh, no, you don’t. We need to have a talk.” She didn’t wait for him to respond before turning, dragging him along. She pulled him all the way to the wing housing the marvels from ancient Egypt, nary a soul around to disturb them, unless one counted the sarcophagi housing the bones of ancient kings, safely tucked behind panes of glass.

She released him but didn’t immediately turn to face him. She wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, treating him to a glorious view of the bare expanse of her back once more. It would be the height of uncouth behavior to touch her without her invitation but damned if his hands didn’t itch to run down her spine and feel the softness of her skin for himself.

He’d barely contained the filthy images in his mind when she whirled to face him. She took a deep breath, her chest heaving and dropping, and glared at him. He swallowed; the last time he felt this neck-deep in trouble he was nine years old and got caught stealing ten dollars from the church collection plate. Back then, the pastor had put the fear of God into him, but facing the displeasure of the small woman who had him utterly bewitched far eclipsed the fear of divine punishment in his youth.

She was, simply put, pissed off.

“Marta—”

She raised a hand, and he shut his mouth with an audible snap. Her eyes closed and she shook her head.

“I want to kiss you so much,” she said, and his heart leapt— 

“And I want to slap you just as much.”

—right off a cliff. 

She crossed her arms. “But I’m not a violent person, so I won’t do that.”

Benoit stood there, frozen in wait for her to decide what to do with him. He’d take whatever punishment she doled out and consider it no less than what he was due. He should have asked her to come, should have given her the option, but it was too late for _should_.  Her eyes glistened in the low light and he hated himself. All he wanted was to gather her close and apologize for being a goddamn fool and beg her forgiveness. She blinked, looking away.

“How was Europe?”

That flat tone chafed. It wasn’t her. She was a naturally soft-spoken woman but her voice was always full of life and color.  


“It was a job,” he said, silently pleading for her to look at him. “I was a fool.”

She scoffed. “That you were, Mr. Blanc.”

“Oh, Marta,” he said, taking a step closer, “please, not that. Anything but that.”

She shrugged one delicate shoulder. “It seems only fitting; you were the one who ran away, not me.”

He frowned, shaking his head and taking another step closer, disregarding the fiery look she shot him.

“I didn’t run. It truly was just a job; ludicrously well-paid, but the fact remains.”

Her brows raised clear to her hairline. “Oh, so it was the money that drew you?” She snorted and gestured airily with one hand. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve got plenty of that just gathering dust in a bunch of bank accounts.”

He nodded. “No, I-I know. I know you do. But…” His pride warred with him, desperate to yank the words he wanted to say back behind his teeth but he wrestled it down.

“But?”

Benoit stared at her, this woman who had been through so much awfulness in her young life and yet had come out of it strong and graceful and gentle. She scared the hell out of him.

“I wanted…to earn you.” The words left him in a rush, leaving him deflated but oddly satisfied. It was the truth, after all.

“ _ Earn _ me?” Marta frowned. “What, like a prize?”

"No, not like that...I..."

He sputtered for a moment, trying to find the right way to make her understand, to bare his soul without risking it, but it was a fool’s errand. Fitting, he supposed, for hadn’t he admitted clear as a bell that he was, indeed, such a fool? He raked a hand through his hair, beginning to pace and nearly howling his frustration. Marta tsked, surprising him when she moved forward with a hand outstretched.

“Don’t do that,” she scolded gently, stopping his movements. “Your hair looks so nice; you’ll ruin it.” She carded her fingers through his hair, smoothing it where he’d made a mess and he wanted to close his eyes and purr at the pleasure of her touch like a great big cat laying in a patch of warm sunlight. She was nearly flush against him and, God save his soul, his arms rose of their own accord and wrapped around her, eliminating that minute distance between them. His large hands spanned her back, her skin just as soft as he imagined it would be. Her hand stilled, then slowly slid to the back of his head. It was a gesture of acceptance and he shuddered, tightening his arms around her and burying his face in her neck.

“Marta…oh, God, I am so very sorry.” His words were muffled, likely unintelligible, but he couldn’t make himself move away from her. “I hurt you, made you think I abandoned you, and I should be hanged for it.”

She scoffed gently but wound her arms around him anyway. “Don’t be dramatic. You’re in big trouble and I’m still angry but the hysterics aren’t necessary.”

He lifted his head just enough to nuzzle her cheek, breathing in her scent. “You can’t have forgiven me that easily.” He pressed a small kiss to her temple and she hummed in assent. 

“I haven’t,” she said, “but I don’t want to fight, not tonight. I worked too hard for this event and I intend to enjoy it as much as I can.” She pulled back, regarding him with those beautiful eyes. “I fully intend to kick your ass tomorrow, but right now, you owe me a dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, who wants a third chapter?


End file.
